You're Mine
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' Johnlock semi-fluff realism. After Sherlock becomes jealous of John being kidnapped by Moriarty, he has some things to tell John.


**You're Mine**

Johnlock

(BBC Sherlock)

Sherlock was literally trembling with anger. How dare he? How dare he? His John, his game, his bloody genius… and yet he had fallen for it. Jim sodding well knew him. It was… unknown to Sherlock. How could someone know him? Consulting detective, the only one in the world, able to see through any crime, any murder, and yet some freakin' Moriarty had seen through him?

John was worried, of course he was, but he was also clueless. He watched his friend trembling and wanted to pat him on the shoulder or even hold his hand or… or something… The doctor had almost concluded that nothing could weaken Holmes, nothing, and yet here they were, in the back of the cab, unusually silent considering the case was over. Normally they'd talk – John would praise Sherlock, Sherlock would explain it was obvious… But this time John felt praise wouldn't help.

Sherlock had saved his life. Now he wouldn't talk to him.

Watson tangled his fingers together nervously, trying to think of the right thing to say, but knowing it was all wrong. How do you feel? Clearly not good. What's wrong? Well, what wasn't – Moriarty escaped, Sherlock lost the USB stick, and the Great Game was over. Welcome home, boredom. It almost made John angry to know Sherlock probably even remembering that John had been the victim.

Whenever he tried to think of his capture, it was a blur. Maybe he had been drugged, maybe he had already repressed the memories. When he'd woken up in the swimming pool changing room a slick voice had said "Good morning, Johnny." He'd almost expected that to be followed by "I want to play a game", but that couldn't have been as terrifying as being told he had to confront Sherlock. He had struggled with the bombs, tears of frustration in his eyes, but he had no choice. He knew the snipers were watching.

He had just wanted to see Sherlock one last time. To tell him about-

No. Never mind. John dismissed it as he snapped out of his flashback. There would be plenty of time, he hoped.

Now he stretched out his hand and brushed his fingertips on Sherlock's palm. He looked round and his glare softened in an instant. John smiled weakly.

"It's not your fault he got away," John murmured, "There was no way out of it alive."

"Then why isn't he dead?" Sherlock snapped back. "Why aren't you?"

John was taken aback. "Because you actually for once had the human decency to care," he hissed, removing his hand and turning away, listening to the engine rumble as the driver peered back at them, all too intrigued.

Sherlock blinked a few times, assuming that had been the wrong thing to say, and then reached out to rest his hand on John's shoulder. "I didn't mean it like that," he attempted slowly. The soldier looked back, and if he was afraid still his expression didn't show it. "Listen, John, you could have died in there. I cannot find a way to express my… regret for your capture by that lunatic. But you're alive; isn't that what matters?"

"You tell me," John huffed, and pushed the cab door open as it stopped in front of 221B.

Sherlock hurriedly payed the fee and clambered out after him, racing to the door just as John strode inside, almost ignoring him completely. Sherlock's mind whirred as he considered John's reaction to his words, how the average human mind naturally sees insults rather than care, as if we are not good enough. To Sherlock the notion was ridiculous – of course John was good enough. That left low self esteem or high standards, but Watson wasn't a proud type. Or did Sherlock's opinion really matter to him?

"John," he called up the stairs as he began to follow again. "John?"  
"What is it, Sherlock?" John grumbled from the kitchen where the kettle was already beginning to boil, hissing softly as it to reflect the tension between them.

"Allow me to explain?" Sherlock asked, as if for permission.

John's brow furrowed. "Explain what? That you don't have a heart? That what that crazy bastard said was true, you are alike and you're going to kill me now because you shouldn't have saved me?"

The outburst left Sherlock reeling from the deductions, about John, the way he thought, the way he felt, the tone, the anger, and even what he wanted Sherlock to reply. His sheer passion would have made it easy for Sherlock to plan his reply, trick him, and make everything better simply. But Sherlock didn't- wouldn't- couldn't lie to him.

He took a few steps forward, watching John look away, look back, look away again and then finally face him. "I am angry because I should have been around to protect you," Sherlock explained.

"I'm a soldier. I can protect myself."

"No you can't. Your battlefield was different to mine. At least in warfare people have the common decency to just kill you on the spot, whereas here… There are things worse than death. For example, watching your- your friend seconds away from death and knowing there is nothing you can do but carry on in some sick game, pretending you don't care. This…" He chuckled a little as he shrugged softly. "This is the game."

"A game?" John repeated with acid lacing his words. "This is not a game, Sherlock; this is life, this is death, as always. There is nothing to… compare it to. There is nothing to even talk about."

And with that he slammed the cupboard shut, tipping the boiling water into his mug and stirring it, the spoon clanking loudly before he stormed away.

Sherlock cringed. This was not working. How could he make John understand?

Following once again, Sherlock said, "I can't bear to see you on his side."

John looked round. "Wh-what?"

"You're mine."

"No, no, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"What do you even mean by that?" John humoured, although he found the whole situation dry and humourless.

"I mean that this is your home. With me. I am not… Him and I are not alike."

Behind his words the doctor heard, 'stay here. Never leave. Promise me you'll never leave.'

"You think I'd leave?" John uttered, setting down his tea and standing to look into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock tensed a little. John just smiled. "You're an idiot."


End file.
